Rehab

This year, I’m pretending Ramadan is rehab. Rahaban? Ramahab? Whatever. The point is, I am realising the merits of the holy month instead of focusing on the negative. Also, my main ambition in life is to go to rehab. Every day I come home hoping for an intervention, my family and friends gathered round telling me I have a problem (you get drunk twice a week! We can’t live like this!). I would pretend to cry a little and tell them I love them, then pack all of my loungewear and head to Promises or some other facility with an equally cheesy/ambiguous name. Wherever has the best pool, to be honest. Is there a beach? Can I smoke? Is this where Robert Downey Jr. “healed”? My roommate would be Naomi Campbell and we would throw phones at each other and laugh. I would talk about my feelings in group therapy and come home with a tan, 5kgs lighter and a penchant for Xanax.

So this year, I am making my dreams come true. Well, as true as possible. My sister is the group leader/head psychologist, my mother the friendly nurse who gives me occasional sips from her flask and the new maid – who is 6’1”, black and decidedly robust – will be the night guard. Not only does she look like she could wrestle anybody down and trap them in a straight-jacket, she also sings along to Mariah Carey and scares everyone in my house. So, she won’t have to do much more than she already does.

I will go to work obviously, because I can only imagine their faces if I tell them I’m going to rehab (especially when I’m actually not), but the shorter working hours will work to my benefit. I will be able to go to the gym/pool in the afternoon, group therapy at around 7 (or wheneverfitar is) and whatever workout class is on offer at sister facility, Samia Allouba. Also, this is the perfect detox time; because eating is in fact discouraged (almost religiously), so I’m only having soup and salad at group therapy and some lemon water at those sessions they insist have to happen at 3am.

I will spend the rest of the time with my new roommate, a 500kg hippo (Naomi was transferred after I threw my BlackBerry right at her head and she needed, like, 7 stitches. She hasn’t responded to any of my emails) with ink all over him. He put on all this weight after his wife drowned during a particularly feisty drinking binge. It’s a rough time for him, he’s pretty emo and quiet about it and I honestly don’t encourage him too much. I do think watching Fifi Abdou will be comforting; if not a bit reminiscent of his wife.

I will also indulge in leisurely showers and watch MTV or The Food Network. Going out is strictly forbidden, but that’s ok, because really there is not one point in going out if alcohol isn’t involved. I have no desire to go and play cards or smoke shisha; I don’t care what the décor looks like. Also, they give out ‘the friends that help you sleep’ at around 11pm so it isn’t like I have a choice either way.

Like Lindsay Lohan, I will go back to my old habits the minute my 30 (29?) day stint is over. Unlike Lindsay Lohan, however, I won’t have to deal with the whole world watching me drink, monitoring my sleeping habits in the Chateau Marmont or wear an ankle monitor, so I’m guessing it will be much easier. By the way, Lindsay, if you ever need a shoulder to cry on/someone to share a bottle of wine with/complain about what a psycho your mother is/quote Mean Girls; call me. Until then, here’s to a blissful getting my shit – but mostly my body – together. Cheers to rehab Happy Ramadan!

For more of Hassan Hassan’s writing and art check out hassanhassan.tumblr.com